Leatherheads

(dir. George Clooney)

April 1, 2008

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People are forever trying to compare George Clooney to Cary Grant, but Hollywood’s been pursuing the next Cary Grant for 40 years now, and will probably go on looking for a facsimile until that sad day when movie screens are finally a thing of the past. Clooney really isn’t the type.

The secret to Clooney’s charm is that he looks great in an expensive suit, just like Grant did, but seems to realize he’s also got a streak of Burt Reynolds in him. He’s a mutt dog who slipped into the “ER” when someone opened the screen door a little too wide at “Roseanne.” Then he was washed and groomed, and graduated to film.

Clooney clearly loves great movies, and he’s more than smart enough to know he can play this thing two different ways. When he goes for the gold, as he does in “Three Kings,” “Syriana,” and “Michael Clayton,” he can be a first-rate performer, one of the best in the business. Otherwise, he likes to hang his head in “aw-shucks” position, and wiggle it around a lot when he talks to women. His weaker performances seem less like actual performances than laissez-faire seduce-athons. Effective laissez-faire seduce-athons, but seduce-athons nonetheless.

Clooney’s latest directorial effort, a goofy 1920s football picture called “Leatherheads,” isn’t “Good Night and Good Luck,” by obvious design. But Clooney can’t seem to think of anything to do except milk the “aw-shucks” angle for all it’s worth, and now that we know the kind of work he’s capable of, the shtick isn’t as much fun to as it used to be.

Don’t get me wrong. I get a real kick out of Clooney, and respect his ambition as a commercial filmmaker. I’ll be surprised, though, if I ever have any reason to think of “Leatherheads” again. And once his next picture is released (the Coen brothers’ much-anticipated CIA comedy, “Burn After Reading”) I’ll bet Clooney will feel the same way.

Clooney plays Dodge Connelly, the star player for the Duluth Bulldogs, a professional football team that’s suffering through the mud-enriched early days of what will eventually become one of the most popular sports in the country. Duluth - like all the other teams in the loosely-structured league - is on the verge of collapse, when Dodge hatches a plan to recruit Carter Rutherford (John Krasinski of "The Office"), a college star and World War I hero whose golden-boy presence is guaranteed to draw fans to the games.

Carter will get paid about fifteen times as much as the rest of the Bulldogs combined, and his manager (Jonathan Pryce) will take what remains of the gate. But, just as Dodge expects, Carter lights up the field, and starts turning professional football into a big-time sport.

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Enter Lexie Littleton (Renee Zellweger), a brassy newspaper reporter who’s been sent by her boss to get Carter to fess up to the fact that he’s not quite the war hero he’s been made out to be. Lexie, of course, falls for both Carter and Dodge, and hilarity ensues. Theoretically, at least.

As she displayed in "Jerry Maguire," Zellweger plays well with boys. She’s virtually the only woman in "Leatherheads," and her scenes are the easiest to sit through. They’re utterly forgettable, but at least you can enjoy her great hats and cool delivery. The other scenes are just forgettable, regardless of what kind of hats people are wearing.

You certainly can’t fault “Leatherheads” on technical terms. Clooney’s cinematographer, Newton Thomas Sigel, gives the film a sun-dappled, “Saturday Evening Post” look; the colors seem to be pouring off of an oversized page advertising the wonder of God’s country.

There are several dazzling on-field tracking shots when Clooney and Krasinski break long runs, and Zellweger, though still the oddest looking big-name actress I’ve ever seen, shines in her colorful costumes like a giant piece of hard candy. James Bissell’s detailed production design is also elegant, but never over-powering.

The real culprit here is the script.

“Leatherheads'' screenplay was written by the very popular former “Sports Illustrated” columnist, Rick Reilly, and Duncan Brantley (with a rumored un-credited re-write from Clooney, which didn’t help much.) I’ve read enough of Reilly’s articles to know he can be pretty funny. But he often puts fancy curlicues on general-issue sports clichés, and the clichés win out this time.

There’s no flair whatsoever to “Leatherheads”’ dialogue, and the characters are archetypes without even the slightest eccentric twist to make them entertaining. Among the supporting performers, only Peter Gerety, who plays the very first professional football commissioner, really holds your interest. Everyone else blends into the golden-hued scenery.

The opening sequence, in which Dodge banters back and forth with his teammates, is obviously supposed to set the tone and crackle like something out of Preston Sturges. But this sort of screwball homage - when it works, which is not very often - is meant to go zip-zang-zoing. The best Reilly and company can manage is zip-sputter-oh, forget it. I can remember one genuinely funny line of dialogue, and there’s a sharp sight gag involving some smeared lipstick that appears relatively late in the picture. And that’s about it, folks.

The script is so lazy, there are two different instances of characters conveniently overhearing pivotal pieces of information while somebody talks on a public telephone. The entire movie has to be hitting on all its pistons before modern audiences will accept something as easy as that, but “Leatherheads” just chugs along without looking back, like a clueless Model T. Clooney’s star-power, which won’t be diminished by this minor misfire, needs a bigger engine than that to properly drive it.

There’s very brief bad language in “Leatherheads,” and nothing else that’s even remotely offensive. Maybe that’s the problem. Look quickly for Randy Newman, who wrote the memorable Dixieland score. He appears in one scene, in full period dress and haircut, tickling the ivories while several players sing drunken war songs. I’d prefer another scathing anti-asshole shuffle, but that will have to do for now. Rated PG-13. 114 minutes.

Paul Tatara

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